Dragon Age: Return To The Stone
by corsairr
Summary: "What I have seen and done to achieve this position defies belief. What I am capable of and will be party to in order to retain it would chill your soul." Queen Aeducan is planning a march against the Deep Roads in an attempt to reclaim what Orzammar lost. What they uncover during their march is much more damning than any Blight. [Post-Origins]
1. The Calling

It was the sweetest thing Miriden had ever heard. And the saddest.

She knew what it was, of course, and why it pained her so much. It'd been about four years since this bittersweet melody laced her eardrums. She greeted it almost as if it were an old friend. But this time wasn't anything like it'd been four years ago. It was louder, smoother, elegant even. A chorus of harmonic voices synced into one like a peaceful lullaby, instead of a damning triumphant theme of doom like it'd been during the Fifth Blight.

There were a lot more differences besides the enthralling song, though. She was alone this time. Back then, she had the company of her fellow Grey Warden who would soon become her lover to reassure her that it was alright until she could finally go back to sleep. It seemed that whatever this version of the Calling was, it was making up for Alistair's absence with this renewed beauty.

Was he hearing it too? By the Stone, he didn't have anyone with him. Miriden could handle facing this thing alone- she hated it, Paragons, she hated it so much -but Alistair was a lot more soft-hearted. He needed her, and they were so far apart. They were an entire sky apart, in fact, given that he was on the surface and she was underground.

It couldn't be another Blight. No, it was too soon after the last one. And she'd only been a Grey Warden for five years; it wasn't possible for her Calling to come so suddenly.

_Kal repartha, valos atredum. Amgefor, amgetoll. Meka tir aedros atuna. Amgeforn, amgetoll. Kal repartha. Kal repartha. Aedros atuna._

Miriden stumbled back and gasped. The calls were coming quicker now. She remembered Alistair telling her that some Grey Wardens can understand the archdemon; was that what this was? There was no archdemon out and about to understand, but what other explanation was viable when she was able to make out words in the song? Maybe she was going mad.

No. Those were locations, and this wasn't an archdemon's call. This was an Old God's call. _Kal repartha,_ a place where we may meet in peace, _aedros atuna,_ the great river that is never touched by the sun. So much of dwarven culture had been lost, they only salvaged a few strings of sentences from their ancient tongues. These words were not among those salvaged. There was no reason she should have understood it.

Whether she was going mad or not, this had to have merit. She wondered if it'd be best to take a trip to the surface and see if Alistair was experiencing similar troubles. Or, no, she couldn't waste time with that. Sending a messenger bird wasn't far out of the way, however. He didn't like it when she sent letters instead of showing up in person, but she couldn't make it to him in time if this was her Calling instead of the song of the Old Gods.

She stood rigid until her breathing steadied and her nerves calmed. Slowly, the song grew quieter and quieter until it was just a low, tolerable hum. It was as quiet as it was going to get, and so long as she could focus, she could deal with it. With trembling fingers, she moved over to her desk, eyes glossing over the maps laid out on them. They were Deep Roads maps.

_ A river, _she reminded herself. _A river... a river... _She ran her pointer finger along the maps, having to alternate between them to find what she was looking for. She'd never heard of a river being underground. Maybe she glazed over that history lesson. Her finger landed on a blue trench between Kal'Sharok and Czibor Thaig.

Kal'Sharok would be a problem. The dwarves that lived there hated the dwarves of Orzammar, calling them traitors of the Stone and bewitching their every step. They wouldn't let them pass without a fight or appeasement, and Miriden had nothing to give them. She wouldn't kill her own people, rather they hated her or not, to see if a very small lead provided any fruit.

Appeasement, however... She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, rubbing her chin. If they were able to clear the darkspawn surrounding Kal'Sharok and gain some more land for the dwarves that lived there, perhaps that would suffice. But there was no telling just how many darkspawn were inhabiting the borders- no scouts had been sent to those lands in a very, very long time. Those parts of the Deep Roads were far back, anyway, and since a Blight had just ended, it'd likely be a suicide mission if they didn't have half an entire army at their backs.

And what if they did have half an army at their backs? She couldn't risk wasting the lives of what precious little men she had, but if someone could lend her a hand...

Alistair. He was the king of Ferelden, right? He could get her an army. Lead it himself, if he wanted. Could she have the heart to ask him of that after not visiting for over two years? She considered other options, not wanting to take advantage of the only man she loved. She wanted to see him, she did. The more time she spent in Orzammar and the stronger her Stone Sense became, the less she wanted to leave, though.

The Legion of the Dead was a formidable order. A bit savage, but they killed darkspawn for a living. Surely they wouldn't mind killing darkspawn for a cause. Talking them into helping would be the hard part. She guessed she could offer them a place in Orzammar if they wanted it, though she doubted they cared at all for being part of a city-state that all but treated them like dust beneath their shoes.

Alistair wasn't out of the question. If she had both armies at her disposal, plus the warrior caste, it'd be more than enough. She had already been making plans to lead a march against the darkspawn and end them once and for all; the only thing she'd been missing was the locations of the Old Gods in order to slay them and put an end to the Blight. None of that seemed possible until now, and this was her only lead. She wasn't confident.

It was her duty as a Grey Warden to defeat the darkspawn and her duty as a queen to save her people before they lost their entire culture and kingdom. Here was a way to do it, and she'd get no where if she didn't try. She could start with the river and slowly lead her army through the thaigs, taking down as much darkspawn as possible and sealing the tunnels to make it official. She'd seal tunnels until there were no more tunnels left to seal.

...If the Assembly agreed to it.

There was the downfall to a constitutional monarchy. Kings and queens weren't allowed to do anything without the approval of an entire governmental branch, and gaining that approval took time, patience, and resilience that Miriden didn't think she could afford. Times were a lot simpler during the Blight. A lot harder, sure, and they hadn't been lacking in enemies, but politics were stressing her out. At least back then she could simply bludgeon her problems to death with her maul.

Taking the throne of Orzammar had been her plan for a long time. She'd had about two years to prepare herself for the responsibility. Gaining her traitor of a brother's trust had been difficult and worth it in the long run. Blood must be repaid in blood, Bhelen himself would say. Well, blood repaid. Trian could return to the Stone peacefully now. Perhaps her method of dealing with Bhelen had been a bit unorthodox, she admitted, though it was nothing less than he deserved, betraying his family like he did. Executing him publicly after stealing his throne earned Miriden the reputation for being both creative in her punishments and ruthless. It was a reputation the monarch of Orzammar needed, in her opinion, since stability was what the kingdom lacked most.

How she got there was of no importance anymore. It offered her little reassurance that Alistair was in the same position she was, surrounded by nobles and politics and maelstroms waiting to happen the moment he blinked at the wrong time. She wondered if Ferelden royalty was less demanding than Orzammar's. For Alistair's sake, she hoped so.

She heaved a weary sigh and headed towards her door. She supposed she could arrange a meeting with her cabinet and confide in their advice giving as little information as possible. The last thing she needed was rumors spreading about the queen planning an exalted march against the Deep Roads. The repercussions of an episode like that made her shudder to think about.

When she reached the meeting chambers, her cabinet was already waiting for her. The team consisted of three members: A middle aged woman with cropped red hair and a scar crossing her chiseled cheekbones; an older, more experienced man with bright eyes and a kind smile whom Miriden was confident would never judge her; and a cocky young man with a braided brunette beard who spoke out of term more than he should have. Why was he part of her cabinet, again?

The woman with red hair, named Sekla Briskly, was first to greet the tired queen. "_Atrast vala, _Majesty."

"You are troubled," said Audalis Heras, his graying beard as well groomed as ever.

Miriden approached the war table, frowning. She had a crease in her brow that was becoming permanent the more time she spent at court. "I trust that whatever I'm about to say will stay well within this room," She was looking right at Daren Hilney as she spoke. He scoffed softly and she ignored him. "and you will give me counsel as you are supposed to do. Nothing I tell you is solid, and I do not know where I'm at with this. You'll know that I do not do anything unless I am certain it will benefit Orzammar."

Audalis, as always, was eager to support his queen. She wished some of that enthusiasm would rub off on Daren. "Of course, Majesty. What's the problem?"

"It's not a problem. Not yet, anyway. I'm hesitant to bring the matter to the Assembly, which is why I'm going through you first," She realized she was stalling. She made a mental note to stop doing that. "I've heard the Calling, but I strongly believe it is not my time, and the Calling is coming to me due to some other force. You should know that this Calling and the one I heard during the Blight were very different, namely with this one, I could make out words.

"It's not impossible for Grey Wardens to understand the archdemons or the Old Gods or whatever this is, but it is... rare. Perhaps me joining during the peak of a Blight is what provoked this, or being so near to the Stone and the mass of darkspawn. It matters not. What does matter is that I believe I have the location of one of the Old Gods. As a Grey Warden, my duty is to do whatever it takes to end the Blight, and if this is an opportunity to end them for good-"

"This is ridiculous," Daren interrupted.

Miriden didn't seem to notice he'd spoken. She continued on as if nothing had been said. "-then I cannot ignore it. However, it is also my duty to protect Orzammar and do what is best for Orzammar. I think now is the time to strike against the darkspawn. I've devised several solutions, but I'm uncertain which route is the best to take." She did a rundown of all the plans she'd considered, including Alistair and the Legion and Kal'Sharok. She was careful to allude from spilling the location of the Old God.

All eyes turned to Sekla. She was the most decisive one of the cabinet, if not the most helpful. Miriden was more than capable of making the hard decisions herself, otherwise she wouldn't be a very good queen, but when the stakes were as high as losing the entire underground dwarven population, she needed insight. That's what the cabinet was for, anyway.

"This is a very daring plan, and there are thousands of risks, but you already know that and I'm not one to lecture," said Sekla. "and I agree with you. While the darkspawn are still recovering from the Fifth Blight, it's the best time to strike. Orzammar has prospered with the new trade routes we've established with the surfacers and the astonishing alliance you and the King of Ferelden have arranged. We're at our peak. Why not now?

"So, here's my advice: Take all of those routes. You need everyone. Hell, confide in the casteless. Snobby warrior castes won't like it but guess whose ass is planted firmly on the throne? Not theirs. So go with both."

Miriden felt a smirk tug on her lips. Among being the most decisive, Sekla was also the most amusing. Her advice gave Miriden a lot of food for thought. The casteless were certainly an option, but it could cause some political unrest that Orzammar really didn't need. There was also the risk of the warrior caste and the casteless being unable to work together. Could be an easy fix, if she divided the units. It was a good idea. Best to not bring it up to the Assembly, though.

"And you two?" she continued, eyes glazing between Daren and Audalis.

"This will upset a lot of people, Your Highness," Audalis answered. "And it will also be a great victory if we succeed. It's a good plan. I say take the risk, if these alliances prove fertile."

Miriden nodded in agreement and turned her attention expectantly to Daren. He seemed to be mulling it over, a concentrated furrow in his brow and his lips pursed slightly. "This is a suicide mission," he said finally. "Unless you get directly to the source, you'll be killing all those darkspawn for nothing, because they'll just keep coming back. And the darkspawn aren't the only foes that inhabit the Deep Roads, don't forget that."

It was a fair point, as much as it made Miriden's teeth itch since it was coming from Daren. "Any other enemies can be easily thwarted by an entire army. Do we all agree the plan has hope?"

Three nods of acceptance gave her her answer.

She took a deep breath and nodded in retaliation. Thousands of lives would be lost if this wasn't a solid lead. They would soon find out if the end truly justified the means.


	2. The Assembly

Like many others, that night was spent pining over maps and reports instead of sleeping. The candles were nothing but pools of diluted wax by the time Miriden had finally gone to bed. Even after spending a good eight hours plotting their course, she still didn't know what to say to the Assembly to convince them that this had any hope. She was dependent on their belief in the prize being greater than the risk.

She woke the next morning with only three hours of sleep at her disposal. Entangled within a nest of plush blankets and her curly hair disheveled, she exhaled sharply. Migraines were inevitable after a night spent like the one she'd had. That didn't make them any less harder to deal with. Groggily, she climbed out of her bed and sat down before her vanity with a soft sigh.

The years had worn her down. Her pale, freckled cheeks weren't as rosy as they once were, and her platinum blonde hair had lost its glow. She supposed she was average by dwarven standards. Probably downright ugly to surfacers, though. Her button nose was thick with wide nostrils as per usual for a dwarf, but her high, prominent cheekbones and hooded brown eyes did her no credit. She had a tooth gap lying beneath her set of thick lips. _It's cute,_ Alistair had told her. Considering he thought genlocks were cute if you squinted, she didn't take his opinion to heart.

She brushed her hair back and used braids to keep her fringe out of her face. Much unlike Orlais, Orzammar royalty didn't need to go through all that pomp and circumstance before presenting their selves. She could walk into the Provings wearing her night clothes and sporting a bedhead and not a single whisper of disapproval would be heard. She was lucky Orzammar cared more about strength than appearance.

Before leaving to become a Grey Warden, she'd kept up appearances, even though it was needless. She enjoyed the smaller luxuries of being royalty and liked to smell and look pretty when the opportunity presented itself. Given that she was going to see the Assembly to discuss war and not politics, however, a casual style would suit her best. She replaced her pajamas with a simple white tunic, brown trousers, fur boots, and a war harness that didn't shine enough to warrant unwanted attention. Her gaze passed to the golden crown resting on a velvet pillow and she graciously picked it up, then eased it onto her head.

She stood up from the vanity and left the comfort of her quarters, carrying the maps of the Deep Roads in her clammy hands. Mid-way down the corridor, she ran into her second, Abbanach Wikka. He always wore his long, dark hair in a long, loose braid that hung down his back and adorned his beard with gold rings. As always, he maintained a respectable distance and a comfortable silence as he walked alongside her. He never offered his own input unless Miriden explicitly asked for it; he was there to protect her from diplomatic incidents, no more.

To her relief, he didn't say anything when he noticed how distressed she seemed.

Audalis was waiting for her at the doors. "Majesty," he greeted with a curt nod. "The Assembly is awaiting you."

The Assembly, now, consisted of eighty-three members, all of which were nobles who believed they had a right to be a part of court because their great-great-great-great grandfather invented a new type of oil to clean an anvil with. It was ridiculous, but Miriden tolerated it. She didn't have a choice.

Audalis on her left and Abbanach on her right, the guards opened the doors to the throne room and in they strode. At the end of the long pathway was an altar accompanied by a flashy throne and two simpler seats on either side of it. Rows of bleachers filled up both sides of the pathway and dwarves of all kind created a mirage of colors and shapes. And, like most of everything in Orzammar, only brown, red, and orange hues were decipherable.

Miriden hadn't tired of seeing those colors since returning to Orzammar. She never considered herself a patriot until she went to the surface, with all that sky and blue and, Stone, why was everybody so tall? When she returned after the Blight, it'd taken her weeks to get out of the habit of craning her neck upwards to look at who she was addressing.

One swift walk down the isle later, Miriden claimed her spot on the throne. Her second and her adviser took the seats beside her. The quiet murmur that had occupied the crowd dimmed until it was no more, and she waited to speak until she was certain she had their attention. She scanned her eyes over the crowd, eventually landing on Sekla and Daren, one of which gave her an encouraging nod. It certainly wasn't Daren. He was watching her critically, as he always was.

It didn't bother her now. "This meeting was arranged to discuss the situation in the Deep Roads," she began, her voice ringing out over the hall. "The darkspawn are still recovering from the Fifth Blight, as are we all, and the day to reclaim our kingdoms has been coming to a peak since the day we sealed those tunnels. Genocide will not go unanswered. We must avenge the thousands of lives that were lost to the darkspawn, and take back what belongs to us.

"That time is now." She barely had time to get the sentence out before the crowd erupted. She couldn't tell whether the voices were debating or shouting cries of disapproval. Regardless, she wasn't finish. "Enough!" she bellowed, straining her voice to reach their ears. When they finally quieted, she began again, her tone sterner this time. "We are dwarva. We are the most resilient, the most technologically advanced, and the strongest of all the races in Thedas. The surfacers seem to have forgotten that. They reduce us to drunken savages out for nothing but gold, with no honor and no sense of integrity. If we are to strike against the darkspawn and reclaim what once was, now is the time to strike, while the darkspawn are weakened.

"But I would not take such a risk so lightly. Contrary to popular belief, I value my people, and I will not throw away your lives. Being queen of Orzammar, hero of Ferelden, and Commander of the Grey, with many friends in high places and treaties obliging orders to heed my call, I can raise an army strong enough to take the darkspawn by storm. Losses are inevitable, of course. I can bring them to a bare minimum,_if _we do this now."

The pommel of a staff stamped the ground. Miriden's eyes flashed to the culprit, finding a grey-haired man standing. "What of these orders? Who do you plan on recruiting?" he inquired, not unkindly. She couldn't place a name to him.

She leaned back in her throne. "The Legion of the Dead, for starters. Killing darkspawn is their forte and so long as I can give them sufficient compensation, they should be more than willing to kill darkspawn for a cause. The Grey Wardens are also mandatory; they're immune to the Blight and should our men become infected, they have the means to combat it. Lastly, Ferelden's armies. My allegiance with the surfacer king is a strong one and he is the least likely to turn me down."

Another stamp. "You'd confide in surfacers for _dwarven_ honor?" a stout woman demanded.

She'd prepared for that one, at least. "They might not be dwarves, but they are warriors. We cannot afford to be xenophobic when we're about to march on the horde-infested Deep Roads. To deny outside help would be the first mistake of many."

"You can't honestly believe this is possible. The darkspawn don't have anywhere else to go. Unless we wipe them out completely, they'll keep coming back, stronger each time, and we'll go through the First Blight all over again. Even if we did retake our kingdoms, it'd take us a millennium just to rebuild!"

"Then a millennium it shall be," Miriden retorted simply. "That's just it, though: I do plan to wipe them out completely. Through the perks of a Grey Warden, I am able to sense the location of the Old Gods. If we find them and slay them before they can become archdemons, there will be nothing left for the darkspawn to hold onto. They will cease to exist."

"Now we're killing Old Gods," The woman scoffed skeptically, shaking her head. "With all due respect, Majesty, that's sodding impossible."

"It wasn't impossible while they were archdemons. It will be no different than dealing with a Blight, only we have the advantage this time. We'll have them cornered. If we station men at every entrance into the Deep Roads, split up and retake the thaigs one by one, we stand a chance. The horizon is always brighter than the field."

Another staff hit the ground. "How about this, Majesty, if you're so certain this will give fruit. Recruit these people and retake one of the great thaigs. Prove to us that this is possible. If you return with a thaig liberated and a victorious grin on your face, we'll march."

Miriden narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, bringing her fingertips together. She could do that. Alistair would be most eager to assist, so she could take a few of his units down with her and prove to not just the Assembly that this was possible, but to herself as well. It was a reasonable trade. Her eyes rose back up to the man's. "That's fair. Do the rest of you agree?"

They were hesitant. She was determined to give them hope. One by one, the staves hit the ground until they were synced up in a chorus of triumphant claps.

"Very well, then. I will begin preparations for a trip to the surface." She looked forward to seeing Alistair. Not so much the sky.


	3. The King of Surfacers

When Miriden stepped outside and entered that vast, endless world with a wide open sky, her stomach dropped. _Watch the ground, don't look up,_ she reminded herself repeatedly. Those were Duncan's instructions the first time she left the bounds of Orzammar. He'd had to hold her shoulders the entire trip to Ostagar to convince her she wasn't going to fall up into the sky.

The stable masters had prepared the brontos they would be riding to Denerim. Her personal bronto, named Amgarrak, the dwarva word for victory, was a ferocious grey male with two large horns on either side of his wide head. Brontos were much more resilient than the horses the sun-touched used, able to withstand the worst weather had to offer and hold the line in battle. And they were the perfect size for dwarves.

Miriden chose to take along a fifteen-man unit of guards, her second, and Sekla, given that she was the one most on-board out of Miriden's cabinet. A message had been sent ahead to the royal palace in Denerim so that they could prepare accordingly for the dwarves' arrival. It was a very, very rare occasion for dwarves to go topside for negotiations, so much that it was likely unheard of in this era. The dwarves never asked for surfacer help and when surfacers needed them, they always went underground rather than the dwarves going topside. Miriden supposed she was breaking a lot of records by doing this.

She hoisted herself onto her bronto, patting his head affectionately once she was situated. One of her guards secured Orzammar's banner onto Amgarrak's saddle, the flag then wavering proudly high above her head. She heeled the bronto's flank and they were off, with Sekla and Abbanach on her sides and her men trailing behind her.

She wore her best suit of armor: silver chainmail topped with a gold breastplate and cauldrons, plus greaves. The bulky armor made her body look even more curvy and stocky than it naturally was. Favoring the two-handed weapons wielded by warriors, her maul (made from the finest blacksmiths of Orzammar, no less) was strapped to her back.

She'd even spent more time on her hair and make up that morning. She'd called in her ladies-in-waiting, something she hadn't done in years, to dawn black winged eyeliner on her top lids and gold on her bottoms. They'd braided gold rings into her blonde hair and put some sort of oil into it to make the long curls look neater. She had an elaborate nose ring in that connected to her earlobe via a gold chain. Piercings were popular in dwarva culture, almost like masks were in Orlais.

"I estimate we'll reach Denerim just before the moon reaches the sky tomorrow, Majesty," said one of her guards.

Miriden gripped Amgarrak's reins tight. It was going to be a long, tiresome trip. Luckily, the brontos were good for more than just riding.

Denerim was a bittersweet city. Miriden could still see the fires blazing around the horde of darkspawn with the archdemon flying high overhead. Some of the buildings still had yet to be rebuilt since the darkspawn's attack, but at least all the corpses had been dealt with and the smell of rotting flesh no longer lingered. The dwarves' arrival sparked a lot of rumors and gossip, likely the most interest this city had seen since the Blight.

Their brontos halted just before the city's gates. A couple human guards approached Miriden, bowing curtly. "It is an honor to meet you, queen of dwarves. Our Majesty is expecting you. You can leave your mounts with our stable master for the time being."

Behind her, her guard was distributing orders to the human stable master already. "They don't eat those brown grasses you humans got. Hay or whatever the sod it is. You gotta feed 'em this here," The dwarf handed the baffled stable master a pouch full of nug meat and lava rocks. "Oh, and keep 'em away from your horses. They might try to eat 'em." The dwarf laughed boisterously. "Don't look so paranoid now, salroka."

Miriden turned her head back towards the human guard with a wry smirk. "I'll do that," she said, then she swung her thick legs over the bronto's saddle and left. Ten of her men stayed behind with the mounts, while five of them, Sekla, and Abbanach followed Miriden into Denerim. The looks they received from the human civilians were amusing. Miriden imagined they didn't often see dwarves that looked to be of any worth.

Now, all at once, they were watching a crowned queen make her way down their roads, her head held high and her eyes not even glazing their merchandise. Her heart thumped against her chest nervously. Seeing Alistair after so long had her on edge. What if he'd met someone else? His letters never alluded to anything remotely similar to such a thing, but he wouldn't break something like that to her in a letter anyway.

She prayed the throne didn't destroy his kind heart. Her greatest fear was returning to him someday and watching the harsh reality of being a king break him down.

When they reached the royal palace, the guards opened the doors for them and she strode into the throne room. There he was. His back was turned to her- he was saying something to Chancellor Eamon in hushed tones. He heard the doors open and he looked over his shoulder, expression irritated until his gaze traveled downwards and landed on Miriden. Then his lips parted slightly in shock and his eyes grew glossy. For a moment, he said nothing, recovering from the surprise. Did he not receive her letter saying that she was coming?

She wanted no more than to rush into his arms, but she couldn't do that while they were surrounded by gossipy nobles. If word got around that the queen of Orzammar and the king of Ferelden were a thing, it'd cause a political maelstrom. But damn, it was physically painful resisting the urge to touch him. She could tell he was fighting the same battle by the longing look in his light brown eyes.

He slowly turned his body completely around to face her as she approached the altar. "Lady Aeducan, I... T-this is a welcome surprise. Your letter, I mean. Your letter was a welcome surprise," he said softly. His cheeks flushed and Miriden knew then that court hadn't ruined him, not yet anyway.

She tried to smile. It came out as more of a wince. She stopped at the bottom of the staircase. When she rose her eyes to look at him, opening her mouth to speak, she clamped it shut again. What could she say? She had to say something to make up for the past two years. Two years worth of longing for him struggled at her lips, and the only thing she could manage was, "It's been a long time." Her voice was so soft she was doubtful he heard her.

He exhaled all at once and looked like his knees might buckle from under him. He made a good choice by not-so-gracefully sitting down in his throne. "What um... what brings you here?" She understood: They could discuss their relationship when they were alone and away from prying eyes and ears.

"The darkspawn," she answered, her tone turning professional. "The dwarves are ready to reclaim their kingdoms. We need the help of your army to do so." She was happy to get a break from having to be persuasive. With Alistair, all she had to do was give him a short and sweet synopsis.

He took a moment to process this, brow furrowing. "What does Orzammar have to offer in return?"

"Trade routes. We could open up our blacksmiths and merchant castes to the surfacers, giving you your pick from the finest weapons and armors crafted in Thedas." She wasn't exaggerating when she claimed their arms to be the best. Nobody would dare try to contradict a dwarf when they said they knew what they were doing with an anvil.

Alistair nodded. "That sounds fair."

"Fair? Your Majesty, she is offering weapons and armor to men that will likely die down there and never live to try out that new merchandise," Eamon scolded.

Miriden shot a pensive look towards the old man, her eyes narrowed skeptically. "I only plan to take over one thaig with the men your Majesty gives me. The dwarven Assembly agreed to this if I proved to them it was possible, and once I do, I will unite the Legion of the Dead, the Grey Wardens, and multiple mercenary bands to retake the rest of the Deep Roads."

It was enough to put an end to Eamon's protest. Miriden hated him. A lot. He was power-hungry and self-serving, and she felt guilty for leaving Alistair in his hands.

"We can spare a few units, Eamon," Alistair said tiredly. "Ferelden is in no immediate danger. So long as Orzammar has the funds to support us, there's no reason for us to deny them."

"And _does_ Orzammar have the funds to support us?"

"Yes." Miriden stated crisply.

Alistair smirked smugly, his dimples accentuated. "While we prepare, you and your men are welcome to stay in the palace. We're happy to have you." A genuine smile tugged at his lips that reached his kind eyes first.

She nodded in acceptance.

"Right then. Now, if I may, can we speak in private? To discuss this more in depth, of course." He kept up a decent poker face, much to Miriden's surprise.

She suppressed a chuckle. "Very well."

He stood up and nodded his head towards the doors she knew to lead to the war room. She followed him there, leaving her men behind. The war room was refreshingly simple, with a single table in the middle of the room containing maps, pawns, quills, and parchment. Alistair shut the door behind her and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Maker's breath, I've missed you. Why haven't you visited in two years? You've never gone that long before. You missed Wynne- she just left a couple weeks ago, set out for Orlais and wouldn't tell me why, something about 'meeting up with an old friend'. That's why Eamon's my chancellor now. He's not easy to deal with but he knows what he's doing politically and, well, I don't. So-"

"Alistair," Miriden said easily. He was rambling.

His cheeks turned pink and he cleared his throat awkwardly, grinning and biting his lip. "Sorry."

Her own smile reached her lips. Up close, she noticed a small but prominent scar on his forehead. She frowned. "That scar," she said quietly, "it's a new one."

He chuckled. "Yeah..."

She averted her gaze. "I wasn't there."

"Don't worry about it," he reassured her. He watched her quietly for a moment and his smile slowly faded into a pained look. He breathed a quiet sigh. "I've missed you so much." His voice was hardly a whisper.

Miriden looked up, brown orbs sad and inquisitive. She took his hand in hers and gave it a tender squeeze. He returned it, the encouragement enough to get him to kneel down on one knee and plant a chaste kiss on her lips. A wave of relief hit Miriden at the touch; his lips were soft and tasted of honeyed wine, and felt more reassuring than any words of comfort her advisers had to offer. She readily returned the kiss, bringing her hand to rest on his cheek. She missed him too. Stone, she missed him too.

When he pulled away he rested his forehead against hers and took a moment to peacefully enjoy their close proximity. On his knee, he was a head shorter than her; they'd came up with many crafty ways to kiss with their significant height differences. Sometimes Alistair would simply pick her up, or she'd indignantly drag a chair over to him, step onto it, and plant a big one right on his mouth. They were frequently made fun of by their companions, naturally. Whatever it took to compromise.

She smiled and ran her thumb along his bottom lip. "We have a lot of catching up to do," she said suggestively.

He grinned and wrapped his arms around her waist, then hoisted her onto his lap and stood up. She wrapped her legs around his waist and he led her over to the war table, where he used one arm to knock everything off of it to get it out of the way. He set her down on top of it then and without wasting another moment, reconnected their lips.


	4. Exotic Methods

Whenever Miriden visited, her excerpts with Alistair always escalated quickly. Their time together was always few and far between, so they took advantage at every interval they could. Maybe it was unorthodox and the Chantry would no doubt turn their noses up at this rushed affair, but the morality was hardly important.

Miriden straightened out her tunic and buttoned it. Alistair was behind her, sitting on the war table and lacing his boots. "How's ruling Orzammar going for you?" he asked conversationally, his tone significantly more cheerful than before their episode.

"Peaceful enough," There were things she needed to tell him that she'd deliberately left out while they were in the throne room. She turned around to face him and when he caught her gaze, he smiled brightly. She didn't reciprocate it. "Have you heard the Calling lately?"

His smile faltered. "No," he said carefully. She was watching the dread seep into his heart as he jumped to conclusions. "Why? Have you?"

She breathed a quiet sigh of relief. "Somewhat. I can understand the... well, I don't want to call it an archdemon, because it's not, but I have the locations of the Old Gods. That's our true destination. We're going to destroy them."

He stood up, eyes bulging. "You want to break them out of their prisms for a mere hope of destroying them?" he exclaimed.

She should have braced herself for his disapproval. And when he put it like that, she saw clearly the recklessness in her plan. Assuming the First Warden in the Anderfels would even consider this deal, the majority of the Grey Wardens would be traveling to the Deep Roads with the army. If an Old God broke out of its prism and they weren't able to kill it, it would become an archdemon, and the Sixth Blight would proceed without a mass of Grey Wardens to fight it and while Ferelden was still recovering from the Fifth. Ferelden would fall before its people even realized a Blight was happening.

There were an overwhelming lot of ways this could all go wrong.

"We'll have several armies at our disposal," she retorted. "We defeated Urthemiel with four and this time we'll have more. And it will be before the dragon becomes an archdemon, making it significantly easier to kill it."

"How many of those people are going to fall to the Blight sickness, Miriden? We're not dwarves. We don't have a resistance to it, and I'm not forcing my men to take the Joining."

Her defensive manner fizzled into thoughtful. He made a good point. If they could find a counter to it, they'd be unstoppable. She looked to the ground thoughtfully, crossing her arms and rubbing her chin. "The Circle of Magi- their enchanters could craft some kind of potion to form an immunity against the Blight."

"Assuming they would agree to try," he countered. "Still, there's a real good chance we'll all be torn apart by this dragon or- Maker, we don't even know if it's a dragon! For all we know it could be some sort of tentacle monster that spits acid or something!" His voice raised several octaves. It was almost comical.

"Well, I guess we'll have to find out, won't we?" Miriden wasn't giving up on this. She wanted everything her people had lost and she would settle for nothing less. For centuries, the Assembly would elect a king and swear that the next one would be the one to march against the Deep Roads. There'd been enough stalling. Miriden would be the ruler that put an end to the dwarves' plight.

Alistair sighed, troubled. "Great. I'm going to be known as the little King that could, who drove Ferelden into another Blight shortly after ending the last one because he thought peace was boring."

"It is boring," Miriden chided evenly. "Alistair, we have the opportunity to end the Blight once and for all. You may be a king but that doesn't eradicate your duty to the Wardens."

"Yes, it does! I have an entire kingdom to look after and I can't so recklessly endanger them."

"A king's duty is to protect his kingdom while a Grey Warden's duty is to protect the world. Tell me, which is more important? A thousand lives or a million?"

He was battling himself. Miriden hadn't seen that look on his face since he had the decision between becoming king or remaining a Grey Warden at the cost of a Mac Tir taking over the Ferelden royalty bloodline. He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "We should have went to Orlais to live in sin while we could."

Her smile betrayed her. "Probably," she agreed. She turned serious again and she approached him, resting her hand atop his. "I need this, Alistair. The fate of my people depends on our success."

"I think I'm experiencing deja vu," He heaved another sigh and nodded solemnly. "Alright. I understand. Besides looking for a counter to the Blight within the Circle, what else can I do to help?"

She withdrew, crossing her arms and rubbing her chin thoughtfully with one hand. "You can have scholars research the Old Gods. I think there are two left- Razikale and Lusacan. If we can learn something about their weaknesses and immunities, it'd help." She paused, wracking her brain for simpler, less bloody ways to assist. "The bulk of the armies going to the Deep Roads for the final assaults will be dwarves. We don't have magic, and we need to spend our money on arms and as many men as we can recruit, so any mage with healing abilities you can spare will do. Also, potions. Health poultices, and lots of them."

"If we try to recruit mages without conscripting them to join the Grey Wardens, we'll have to deal with the templars. What do you propose I do about them?"

"Bring them with us. Not a lot, just a single unit of mages accompanied by a couple templars will do. The last thing we need is an army of mages around an Old God."

He nodded in agreement. "What about our old friends? You think they'd want to participate?"

"Maybe. Send out some letters. Oghren's back in Orzammar, he'll have my ass if I don't take him. Don't waste scouts on Morrigan, you know we won't be able to find her unless she wants to be found, and she doesn't. The rest of our companions have some hope." She missed them all dearly. She hoped they wouldn't be too caught up with their new lives to refuse.

"It'll be done. Anything else?"

"No, I think that's it," She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm going to inform my men of your support. Introduce me to the scholars and alchemists you've gathered later." She tugged the collar of his shirt down to her so she could place a brief, dismissive kiss on his lips, then headed for the door.

His cheeks were blazing, as they always did whenever she kissed him. He smiled sheepishly. "Yes ma'am."

* * *

><p>Miriden was pleased with Alistair's results, which were delivered the next day. He brought her a group of five scholars, all majoring in demonology and ancient Tevinter, who were eager to blab about their findings. Unfortunately, they had nothing useful to aid against defeating the Old Gods. Razikale was shrouded in mystery, true to his title as the dragon god of mystery, and Lusacan yielded the same results.<p>

The alchemists he provided almost scared Miriden by the number of ways they knew how to poison an unsuspecting somebody's dinner. They were certified, however, and she was confident they would be able to accomplish what was needed. They would accompany the armies into the Deep Roads and provide poultices and aid when needed.

The only branch left to check off the list were the mages. They would undoubtedly be the most difficult to recruit, and also the most useful. Miriden and Alistair made a joint decision to travel to the Circle on their way back to Orzammar. In all technicality, the mages were obliged to assist in Grey Warden business, but Miriden preferred to not take it by force. They wanted the mages' cooperation and couldn't afford their spite.

Alistair stood upon a lift overlooking the units that would be going with them. "We'll be traveling to Orzammar to aid the dwarves in their battle against the darkspawn," he began. He delivered a short speech telling the soldiers all they needed to know. They only planned on retaking one thaig for the moment, then the pressure would be eased off of the humans and they could move on to the important part.

With the units combined, there were about seventy-five men total, not including the seven alchemists and the assumed help of the mages. When Alistair concluded his speech, they set off immediately. With Ferelden's banner and Orzammar's banner wavering side by side, Miriden was never more hopeful.


	5. The Circle of Magi

Miriden was slowly adjusting to the sky again. She still preferred to be under a roof and it did her stomach no good to be traveling under that boundless blue abyss. The effects were less prominent than when she first emerged from Orzammar (she'd fainted at first and threw up several times on the way to Ostagar), but still painfully adhering.

Her dwarven troops were doing worse. Every twenty minutes they had to pull over so one of them could vomit and many of them had bright red sunburns caressing their cheeks. It was nothing so serious that it would affect their duties, but the amount of complaining was annoying. The dwarves complaining provoked human complaining about the dwarves complaining, and it was generally just a big mess.

Miriden's relief was palpable at finally spotting the Circle in the far-off distance. The tower stood high into the clouds, forming an arc that reminded her of a sword. Ironic, considering the templar sigil. Dark clouds and misty fog hung in the sky and lingered over the lake, crafting an eerie aura expected of a Circle. Speaking of the templars, they were there to greet them when they arrived.

"Greetings, Your Majesty," one of them said. "The First Enchanter and the Knight Commander are honored by your visit. I regret to say that we don't have enough boats to carry you all across the lake in one go, so if you could choose a select few to accompany you, we would be grateful."

Alistair clumsily climbed off his horse. His purple cape got caught between his legs and nearly caused him to trip on the way off, but he saved himself at the last minute and cleared his throat awkwardly, smoothing his hair back. "Right. Ahem. Miriden?"

She had to stifle her laughter. Putting him on the throne probably wasn't the best idea in retrospect. "Abbanach and Sekla." she said, nodding towards her companions. Her second rode up beside her wordlessly on his bronto, while Sekla climbed off of hers and started towards the boats.

Only she wasn't aiming for the boats. She knelt down and stuck her hand in the water experimentally, then gasped and jerked it out. Miriden furrowed her brows. "Why is your water so _cold_?" complained Sekla, shaking her wet hand out.

"I... I'm sorry?" the templar said, confused.

"Ah, just ignore her," Miriden countered, waving her hand dismissively. She removed herself from Amgarrak and joined her men while Alistair discussed the situation with the templars.

"This ale we got from that tavern back there tastes like shit," a guard she recognized as Derrick said. He was scowling at a bottle of brandy in his hand. "Humans are lightweights. Can't handle a good beer even if they knew how to brew 'em."

Well, he wasn't wrong. "That's 'cause their alcohol has to be all nice and romantic, 'cause the _Maker's_ always watching 'em stroke their pike and please their lady," another dwarf piped in. "How do thems Chantry folk live like that, anyway? I wouldn't want _my_ god to watch me wipe me ass. He should show some respect for me personal space if I'm devoting me life to him."

Miriden laughed at that. Watching her people cope with the surface was more amusing than the drinking contests the taverns in Orzammar held. She spent significantly less time in those taverns than she did before being considered for the throne, but occasionally, she needed nothing more than to simply pop her hood up and get wasted in the good old-fashioned dwarven way. Which was the only fun way, in short. The taverns in Orzammar lacked the pious aura underlying the bustle that occupied human taverns. No dwarf went to a tavern other than to get drunk and have fun. Brawls were common, but held in good faith and nobody raised a storm if they lost. What you saw was what you got, and it was as simple as that.

She loved it. She loved Orzammar. Which was why destroying the darkspawn was so important to her. She looked over her shoulder to see if Alistair had finished, finding him ungracefully crawling into a boat. One of the templars had to help him. She sighed inwardly and got into the other boat alongside her second and her adviser.

With one templar stationed in the dwarves' boat and one in the humans', they paddled along to the Circle of Magi. Miriden remembered the first time she made this trip. Sten had had to bribe a peckish templar with cookies to convince him to give them a ride across. Her heart leaped at the thought of Sten rejoining them for the mission. Though short-sighted and stoic, he held a peculiar soft spot for kittens and sweets. He used to pick Miriden up and place her on his shoulders whenever she couldn't see over a crowd; she missed him.

When the boats docked at the shore of the Circle, they trekked the remainder to the tower. First Enchanter Irving remained in charge of the Circle, so Miriden hoped the favor she paid him during the Blight would arc to their advantage. Regarding the rising tension between mages and templars, she didn't care. The mages' plight was not her own. She did, however, believe in a Circle. Not so much the Chantry, and not just because the Maker was not her own god.

Trivial things like whether or not the mages' beds were comfortable enough was not her concern. They ascended the staircase up to the tower and the templars held the door open for them while they entered. Inside, the stone walls radiated cold air and the prickle of magic occupied the floors. Standing not far ahead was First Enchanter Irving, as old and grey as ever. He looked even more tired than when she'd met him bound by a demon during the Blight. Next to him stood Knight-Commander Greagoir, his arms crossed and an unreadable expression on his face.

"How peculiar of the Hero of Ferelden and the king to pay me a visit after all this time," he said quietly when they approached him. "I received your letter. My predecessor, First Enchanter Remille, already manufactured a counter to the Blight. Unfortunately, it doesn't hold off against the sickness. It only helps the darkspawn not sense the wearer." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brooch, some sort of black magical fluid swirling just beneath the surface.

He turned it over in his fingers, watching the liquid move thoughtfully. "To fight off the sickness, I've crafted some rare potions. There are only a few, so please, make use of them, and use them graciously. There aren't enough for an entire army. I suggest you provide it only for your strongest."

Miriden was surprised he'd managed all this in a matter of days. Perhaps he'd already prepared the items, long before she even returned to the surface. "Thank you, First Enchanter," she replied, bowing her head gratefully. "There is one more thing we ask of you."

"If it is within my power to give, I'll do what I can."

Regretfully, this wasn't in his power. She only hoped he could convince the people who did hold this power to give her what she needed. "We request a unit of mages to heal our presumed wounded. Just a few is all we need. The templars are welcome to accompany these mages if they so desire to." She hoped the templars would accompany them, in fact. They could use the extra swords.

Knight-Commander Greagoir's eyes narrowed. "There is no Blight going on. This is the idle fancy of the dwarves. You don't need mages."

"On the contrary," Miriden snapped. "My people aren't alchemists and they obviously don't possess magic. Spending our resources on poultices would be a waste when we could spend that money on more men. Your mages will hold supportive roles, they won't be fighting. And if I'm honest, I'd _prefer _a few templars to join them."

"Perhaps we should leave this to our mages to decide. It is their life that will be on the line, after all," Irving added.

"And not the templars that will accompany them?" Greagoir bit back.

The mage looked exhausted and fed up with the Commander's incompetence. "They can decide for themselves as well, yes. Hero, how does a band of seven mages sound? And however many templars Greagoir sees fit to join them."

They would need more than that for the ensuing army. Seven mages were plenty for the small group they had now, but they'd be next to useless in the long run. "Not to take advantage of your hospitality, Enchanter, but we'll need more than that. As I mentioned in my letter, this is but a very small fraction of the army we will become once we retake one of our thaigs. The trip we plan now is only to prove to the Assembly it's possible to push the darkspawn back."

"No doubt," Irving stated tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose. The stress he was inevitably enduring made Miriden feel bad for dropping this on him. "There is only so much I can do, Warden. Perhaps... come back after you retake this thaig and get your army, then we'll discuss more numbers."

"As for me, I will loan you eight templars," Greagoir offered. "Bring them back alive. They didn't sign up to kill darkspawn."

"I understand," Miriden said earnestly.

He stared at her hard for a long moment, then slowly nodded. "I will gather them now. Irving, I suggest you do the same. Choose wisely. No apprentices, only mages that have passed their Harrowing."

"Do not insult my intelligence, Knight-Commander. I know my mages better than you do. Now, excuse me, Warden, I will prepare the brooches, potions, and the mages."

The two leaders departed, disappearing behind the door of the vestibule and leaving Miriden to her men. She craned her neck to look up at Alistair. "That could have gone worse." she quipped.

"I'll say," he replied. He looked pleased. "Hey, why didn't the dwarves do this before? If all they had to do was get the help of surfacers, what was stopping them?"

"Pride," she answered simply. "Our loss is our loss alone, and many among us believe we can make up for that loss without help. The bitter truth is we can't. The low fertility rate, plus the darkspawn constantly hounding us, our numbers are dangerously dwindling. If we don't address this problem soon, we'll lose everything. Including our lives."

"What made them get over their pride, then?" he continued.

"They haven't."

He went quiet. Behind her, Abbanach was watching the walls with narrowed eyes. "This feels wrong." he said, his deep and rarely-used voice raw.

"What do you mean?" Miriden asked.

"These are not our people. Not our magic." Abbanach rarely spoke not because he was broody, but because like many dwarves, he was illiterate, and barely knew how to convey what he was thinking. To save himself from looking foolish in front of his superiors, he simply kept his mouth shut. "I know what must be done. We need the cloudgazers. It still feels wrong. Off. Sickly." He slowly brought his gauntleted hand up to graze his fingers along the wall.

He snatched it back and clenched his fist when Irving and Greagoir returned with the templars, mages, and equipment. Three of the mages were elves, three were humans, and one was... qunari? Miriden tilted her head slightly, confused.

The giant qunari man scowled defensively at her. "I am not of the Qun. My feet have never touched Par Vollen's soil."

"Rican came to the Circle when he was ten years old," supplied Irving. "Out of choice, no less. He is one of our best healers. You can depend on him."

Rican raised his chin pridefully. Miriden slowly nodded. Who was she to judge? This qunari looked nothing like Sten; he had large black horns that curled around his pointed, pierced ears. His piercingly gold eyes rested on a field of black sclera, and his white hair hung in long tresses past his waist. With chiseled, sharp features and a strong jaw, he was oddly handsome. And intimidating.

Beyond the seven mages were the promised eight templars. Each was carrying a satchel filled with brooches and the potions they would need for the non-Grey Wardens traveling to the Deep Roads with them. At the head of the small army was Irving and Greagoir.

"Just clip the brooches to your tunic underneath your armor," Irving directed. He heaved a sigh. "Well, it was good to see you, Warden. I do hope this is not our last meeting. Please, return our mages and templars safely, and good luck on your mission."


	6. The Stone's Favor

When they returned to Orzammar, not a single surfacer among them weren't completely fascinated by the entirety of Orzammar. A couple wanted to explore, and Miriden let them, since they would be leaving for the thaig in the morning. They deserved to spend their last night without bloodshed however they wanted.

Orzammar's beauty was haunting. Miriden's nightmares were plagued by it. The buildings and architecture were all carved from stone and the trenches of lava that ran through the kingdom cast an orange glow through the halls. Great marble statues of the paragons adorned even the forgotten corners of the city. Everywhere one looked, gold was to be found, rather it in the palm of someone's hand or a piercing in their ears. Even the casteless, the scum of the dwarves, wore fine gold jewelry.

Merchants pitching their wares, the idle gossip of the townsfolk, the sultry voices of the noble hunters, the jingle of coin purses, and the clash of steel as a blacksmith ground their sword against an anvil were all noises that made Orzammar what it was. There was always something to be heard. The only time the kingdom was half as quiet as an average Ferelden village was in the midst of night on the day of a beloved king's death. Miriden was glad she hadn't been here to witness the night of her father's death.

But that was the Diamond Quarter. Dust Town was the damning opposite.

The trek through Dust Town was the most shocking thing she'd ever witnessed. Filthy beggars clawed at her heels as she passed, only thwarted by the guards that kicked them away. Casteless shouted scornful things at her and screams of hatred, sometimes even throwing what precious little coin they had at her with a, "Take it, you pompous bitch. After you drive our kingdom to hell, I ain't gonna need it."

Her guards formed a barricade around her and Alistair. "Why are they doing this?" she asked in outrage. She'd walked through Dust Town many times before during her reign. They didn't bow and address her as 'Your Majesty', but they hadn't so blatantly scorned her.

"They're not in favor of claiming the stalata negat, Majesty." a guard helpfully supplied from beside her.

One casteless in particular stuck out to her. He glared like he was ruthlessly sticking a dagger repeatedly into her throat. "You nobles sit up there on your sodding pile of gold and make decisions without sparing a fig for us!" he bellowed. The guards picked up their pace, forcing Miriden to do the same, but the casteless merely raised his voice. "You lie when you say you're doing this for your people! We are your people! Like us or not, we're you! We make up the majority of this fucking kingdom and without us, you'd be less than nothing! What about what we want! Do you hear me, Majesty? WHAT ABOUT WHAT WE WANT?"

A chorus of revolutionary shouts of agreement pierced the air like an exclamation point. "Come on, Your Majesty. We need to hurry," a guard pressed quietly.

Miriden came to a halt, her fists clenched. "No." She spun around and marched to the end of the barricade of guards, then shoved them out of her way to see the casteless man who'd outed her. He was a rough looking man, with long black dreadlocks and gold-capped teeth. His left eye was plagued by an ugly scar. He met her glare with his own, daring her to do something.

When she opened her mouth, he cut in. "Go ahead and order your lackies to kill me, lass. I've got nothing left to lose. No caste, no house, no family, not even a name. I give 'nothing' new depths." His voice was gruff and deep, even when not shouting. "Ain't a damn thing you high and mighties can take from me."

She noted he was fairly well-spoken, unlike the majority of dwarves in Dust Town. It was plausible he originated from the Diamond Quarter and was stripped of his caste. Judging by how willing he was to endanger his life, she bet it was for a good reason. "It is not my aim to take away from you, man," she said. "I want to hear you. Tell me what upsets you."

He scoffed obnoxiously. "Hear that, folks? She wants to hear us before she sends an army to destroy us for wanting a say."

"Majesty," Sekla said through gritted teeth from beside her. Her voice was hushed. She didn't want to be overheard. "If you don't kill this man, the Assembly are gonna get right suspicious. They might even take your crown if you do this."

"Let them. A queen who doesn't care for all of her people, out of touch with the Stone or no, isn't a queen I will be," Miriden retorted. She turned her gaze back to the man. "What's your name?"

"I told you I ain't got one, lady," he snarled.

"Well then, No Name, I'd like to hear you out," She was definitely going to receive an earful from the Assembly later. But they wouldn't dare take her crown in the presence of a surfacer army and its king. She could practically taste the tension in the shoulders of her guards. They were debating whether to yank her into submission before she caused a maelstrom, she knew.

The nameless dwarf narrowed his eyes suspiciously. One of his buddies shoved him forward and his suspicion abruptly exploded into blind rage. He whirled around and punched the dwarf who'd shoved him right in the jaw, frothing with anger.

He was a berserker.

One thing became certain, then: This man was once part of the warrior caste. Berserkers made up the majority of this caste, and it was also the only way to learn those techniques. Most warriors practiced controlled, focused fighting. According to them, to give over to rage in battle is to hand victory to your opponents; anger clouds one's mind and forces a warrior to make foolish and often fatal mistakes. The deadly berserkers dare – for a berserker would never beg – to differ. To them, the only way to conquer the terror of war is to become that terror yourself.

Miriden was that terror. She too was a berserker, trained by her father, no less.

Even so, she stood calmly and watched the brawl ensue without interrupting. The berserker took the other guy down swiftly with just one more punch, then he turned back around to Miriden, breathing hard with his teeth bared and his eyes clouded by the red bloodrage of a skilled berserker. She did nothing but raise her eyebrows.

Her guards started to move protectively in front of her but she held her hand up to stop them. A malicious grin rose to the casteless's lips, chuckling as his rage fizzled and his breathing slowed.

"Alright, Aeducan. You're more sincere than you put off, I'll give ya that."

"I get that a lot."

He took a few steps forward, slow and steady, thick fists clenched. Blood dripped from his knuckles. "Hoping to find more support for your march? Ain't gonna find it here. Us, we underdogs, we don't want this. You're gonna get your ass docked by darkspawn so hard that the only thing the darkspawn'll have left to terrorize is the people you left behind: Us. Not that you'd give a sod, of course." He scoffed. "Rock lickers." he added in a mutter.

The casteless dwarves surrounding him cheered in agreement.

Miriden didn't feel guilty for not thinking of the casteless when she made her decision. They were disgraceful savages without the favor of the Stone nor the Paragons. But she did feel for them now. They were still dwarves and their home was still Orzammar. They deserved a say in its fate.

"And what if we didn't leave you behind?" she said.

He arched a thick brow, confused.

"I'm not going to withdraw this march, not for a group of casteless. What if we included you? Allowed you to join, and fight? That way if Orzammar falls, you'll have played a part in the last attempt to take back what we'll eventually lose anyway."

"More like played a part in the annihilation of our people," he spat.

She could feel Sekla's glare boring into the side of her head. Miriden paid her no mind. She knew what she was doing. "Let me put it more bluntly, then. We. Are. Not. Withdrawing. So what you can do to stop Orzammar from falling is join the fight."

"We ain't gonna fight for you, you sodding mud splashers!" someone else shouted from the crowd of casteless. The declaration led to an incoherent mess of yelling from the others.

Abbanach unsheathed his sword and stepped forward. "That's enough!" he bellowed.

Miriden shook her head at him sternly. "Let them fester. I'll wait."

"Hey!" the nameless growled at the crowd. "HEY! Shut the hell up, you idiots. I think we've got an advantage here," Slowly, the crowd's shouting dissipated into a murmur. "What are you gonna give us in return if we fight?" he asked Miriden.

"You're not fighting," Sekla seethed, glaring at Miriden as she spoke. "Let's go, Majesty."

"Speak out of turn again and you'll be among these casteless," Miriden threatened. The fire in her eyes bore a tremor in Sekla, and the woman backed down without another word. The queen turned her gaze back to the casteless. "You will be reinstated into your caste, whichever one you were in. If you were born casteless, you can take your pick."

Loud gasps, then gossipy, awed chatter.

"If you fight." Miriden added.

"The Assembly will never accept that!" a guard from behind her exclaimed.

"The Assembly won't have a choice but to do whatever the fuck I say once I conquer the Deep Roads." She didn't take her eyes off of the nameless dwarf staring at her.

Then she smiled politely. "Volunteers?"

Several casteless strode forth without hesitation. No Name wasn't among them. Miriden tilted her head to the side in order to see past the crowd and at the dwarf expectantly. Begrudgingly, he sighed and marched forward, shoving his way through the others until he was at the front.

"This better be worth it, or I'm coming back here with your head as a prize instead of a thaig," he growled.

"I bet," Miriden replied in a bored tone. She'd spent nearly a year in Oghren's company; this man didn't intimidate her. "Abbanach, make a walk around Dust Town and inform every casteless that the option to gain the ancestors' favor once more is available. Make a list of names and tell them to meet us at the Deep Roads entrance in the morning. Same applies to you lot. Don't worry about weapons and armor. We'll provide them."

Her champion nodded stoically and left to do her bidding. "If you don't have a name, what do we call you?" Miriden directed at the dwarf who'd started this.

He grunted. "Dunno," he said with a shrug.

"Well if you insist, Dunno-"

"No, you flaming blighter, I mean I don't know what you'd call me."

From beside her, Alistair failed at stifling his muffled laughter. The berserker shot him a glare and he clamped his mouth shut.

She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "How about 'Urtok'? It means dragon."

For a moment, she thought he was going to punch her by the way his eyes gleamed with the same rage they'd harbored after he knocked out that other casteless. But then he grunted again. "Fine. Invoke that name when you're about to die. I might show up." She raised her eyebrows, surprised. "To loot your corpse, of course." He burst into laughter and by the roughness of it, she could tell he didn't laugh often.

"Well played," she praised with a soft chuckle. "Alright, Urtok. Welcome to the march."


	7. The Pride of the Dwarva

"Not to be a damper on the good news, but... isn't this going to cause a lot of problems, politically?" said Alistair, worried, as they walked through the Diamond Quarter on their way to the palace. The Assembly needed to be informed of who all they'd recruited thus far.

"Yes," Miriden responded calmly. "There's nothing we can do about it."

He rested a hand on the top of her back comfortingly as they walked. It caught the suspicious eye of many dwarves. "You did the right thing, accepting those casteless. It'll be a big step for the dwarves if they move past all that bad blood."

"They won't," she said. "The only thing we can hope for is that the Assembly will put that bad blood aside long enough to get us through this."

They walked together in comfortable silence for a moment. His soldiers were off exploring with the mages and templars, while Miriden's guards had returned to their posts. They had a moment of peace, however short. Alistair idly played with Miriden's curls, likely unaware that they were being watched. Interracial relationships weren't as scandalous in Orzammar as they would be in Ferelden, say between an elf and a human, so a bit of public display of affection would do no harm.

From what she could tell, the dwarves were positively giddy about their visitors. The Shaperates were having a grand time discussing runes and lyrium usage with the mages, the merchants flitted whenever a soldier approached and asked about their wares, and the blacksmiths beamed while they showed the templars more efficient ways to smelt a dull sword. It was fun to watch.

When Miriden felt Alistair's eyes on her and looked up at him, she blinked. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked quizzically.

He had an undeniable fondness in his gaze and an affectionate smile on his lips. "You," he answered, grinning. "The way you watch your people. You just look so... proud."

She felt her cheeks heat up and she smiled bashfully, turning her gaze back to the stone ahead of her. "I _am_ proud. We're constantly battling the darkspawn, own a very small fraction of what our kingdom once was, and we're still somehow the most technologically advanced and the strongest race in Thedas."

"That _is_ incredible, yes," He rubbed her shoulder and sighed, troubled. "I'm sorry, this is all just... surreal. I'm either going to witness the golden age of the dwarves as they recover what was lost, or I'm going to witness their annihilation." He paused. "Back in Ferelden, when you first came to me, I don't think I realized the entire weight of this. Seeing the dwarves here, so proud and prideful and certain, I just... I'm not backing out on you, not now, I just worry about participating in what could be the end of the dwarves."

"I understand," She graced her fingers over his side reassuringly. "Whatever happens, the repercussions will fall to my house. Nothing will come back on Ferelden, I'll make sure of it." She would lead house Aeducan to glory, or to hell.

He smiled genuinely. "I take your word for it."

They reached the palace and entered. Miriden's advisers and her champion were standing outside of the Assembly doors, waiting for her. Miriden knew by the looks the nobles were giving her as she passed that word of the casteless fiasco had spread quickly.

_"Traitor,"_ they whispered scornfully through gritted teeth. _"Defiler." "Poison." "Fool." _

She ignored them as best she could, using Alistair's reassuring hand as a crutch. Her advisers didn't look all too happy with her either, Sekla least of all. Not even Daren, for all his bitter spite, could match her glare. They said nothing as Miriden passed into the Assembly hall. The room was eerily quiet and eighty-three gazes were locked on her, the amount of reproach in their eyes varying from person to person.

Calmly, Miriden sat down in her throne and allowed her champion to place the crown on her head. She watched the dwarves on the rows of bleachers expectantly.

One of them finally spoke in hushed tones. "We agreed to let you confide in surfacers for this hopeless plan, but taking in the aid of the _casteless_ is taking it too far."

"Are they not part of Orzammar?" she retorted quietly. "This is not a decision we can afford to make with our noses in the air. Reclaiming the _stalata negat_ will aid _every_ dwarf, not just the castes and the royalty. Why should the casteless be left to rot while we prosper?"

"Because they're _dirt!_ The Ancestors are not with them and they have lost their connection with the Stone. You insult the Ancestors and defile their crown by going against what they set in stone!"

It stung. His words pierced her heart, but she showed no outward sign of being fazed. "The Stone crafted us just as they crafted the casteless. The Ancestors are giving the casteless another chance to prove their worth. Let us not stop them."

"You mean you're giving them another chance to prove their worth."

She sighed inwardly. "Look, they are able-bodied warriors and they want to fight. We're going up against a horde of darkspawn coupled by two Old Gods, not some frilly barmaid begging for mercy. The darkspawn aren't going to be choosy when they hand a sword to one another. We won't either." Her temper was rising rapidly and her patience was wearing thin. The more time she spent in court, the shorter her temper became. Having the training of a berserker didn't help.

Audalis cut in before the argument could go any further. "That's enough. All in favor of allowing the casteless into the army?"

A loud mirage of staves clamped the ground. Miriden couldn't tell if it would be louder than the opposing.

"And of keeping the casteless out of it?"

The Assembly, much to Miriden's relief, ruled in favor of giving the casteless a second chance. Just barely, but enough. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief and relaxed. It was one less headache to contend with. Though now she would have to constantly look over her shoulder for assassins, as they would no doubt be called upon.

The deshyr who'd initiated the argument gripped his staff so tightly his knuckles were white against his dark skin. "You'll regret this, Aeducan."

"You'll regret threatening her so openly," quipped Abbanach snidely.

That shut the deshyr up. Jaw clenched, he sat back down with a huff. Miriden felt a smug smirk tug at her lips and she clapped her hands together with a sense of finality. "Now that that's settled, I've gathered seventy-five soldiers from our gracious Ferelden king, seven mages and eight templars from the Circle, plus the brooches and potions they gave us to aid in fighting the darkspawn, and the band of casteless that volunteered. The tides look promising."

"That's easy to say when you're the one holding the blade," the deshyr who'd previously snapped at her said.

"I won't object to handing you one," she bit.

Audalis once again cut in. "The matter is settled enough for now. Since you'll be leaving in the morrow, tradition dictates that we hold one last celebration on the eve of battle to see our queen off. I have already prepared the minstrels and the entertainers, and your ladies-in-waiting eagerly await your presence to prepare you for presentation."

Getting piss drunk sounded good right about now. Miriden may have been cold and calculating, but she was still a dwarf. She still knew how to hold her alcohol, cheat her ass off at a game of Wicked Grace, con a beggar out of his last coin, and drink pure swill like it was her last. Before the mess with Bhelen happened, she spent the majority of her time in taverns perfecting her skills at dwarven cutlery, but being queen left little time for such idle fancies.

"I look forward to it," She smiled and stood up from her throne to return to her quarters.

She could remember only one instance where a celebration like this was held: When her father, King Endrin Aeducan, set off to retake the thaig of Kal-Sharok only to find that dwarves already thrived there. The night of the celebration had been wild, and among the fondest memories Miriden had. Even the casteless participated. It was the only time they were ever allowed in the Diamond Quarter. They may have been scum, but they were still obligated to pay their respects to their king.

Alistair followed behind her as she walked to her quarters. "Er, what exactly does dwarven celebration entail? As in how many times can I expect to throw up tonight?"

"If you're lucky, your organs will stay where they should be."

"Right. Very reassuring."

They passed a pair of beautiful women in elaborate silk dresses and flushed cheeks. They positively swooned as Alistair passed. "There he is, there's the human king! Oh, oh my... He's even more handsome than the portraits!" one of them whispered excitedly to her friend. They were noble hunters, no doubt.

Alistair looked terrified. "They're undressing me with their eyes," he hissed to Miriden.

She laughed and waved her fingers at the ladies. "Careful, ladies. He's a hunter." She respected noble hunters, to a degree. They played an important part in maintaining the dwarven population. How these two got into the palace was beyond her. Most could barely afford to bribe the guards to get into the Diamond Quarter. She suspected a deshyr had some scandalous secrets to hide.

They looked like they were about to faint from the thrill of being in the presence of a mightily handsome king. The king himself's cheeks were blazing and with a frightened whimper, he moved to the other side of Miriden. She hadn't seen that much of a stir in the noble hunters since passing them with Gorim at her side. His characteristic red hair and braided beard were the ideal of a dwarf, and Alistair's honey blonde hair inevitably evoked some urges in the ladies and gentlemen of Orzammar.

As Audalis had announced, the ladies-in-waiting were there to greet Miriden when she walked into her quarters. The team consisted of three women: Mayella, Reagan, and Piper. They all wore outrageous fashion and elaborate make-up designs, making their job distinct to any who passed. The queen's ladies-in-waiting were supposed to be the most beautiful women of Orzammar with the power to make any of their charges just as beautiful. And they did.

Reagan and Piper took Miriden by the forearms and moved her over to a chair, forcing her to sit. Alistair watched with a curious expression. Mayella got started on Miriden's hair while Reagan started on her make-up and Piper scrounged through the wardrobe for something to substitute Miriden's tunic.

"Care to introduce us to your friend, Majesty?" inquired Mayella conversationally as she braided a gold ribbon into a thin strand of Miriden's hair.

"Alistair. King Alistair," she answered.

Mayella nearly dropped the pick in her hands. "Oh." From the mirror in front of her, Miriden could see how bright Mayella's face became. "Oh, forgive me, er... Human Majesty."

Alistair laughed. "Please, just Alistair will do." He sat down on Miriden's bed and picked up a book from the end table, reading the cover.

Piper slammed the doors shut to the wardrobe and spun around, sassily placing a hand on her hip. "Well, if he's a king and he's going to be at your side all night, looking like _that_ will simply _not_ do."

He peered up from the book. "Like what? What's wrong with me?"

Piper had a scowl on her face. "Like a human savage. Your hair, what even is that? A duck tail? And those _trousers_, oh, my mother would be rolling in her grave. No, you need... hmm..." She tapped her chin in thought, then her eyes lit up with an idea. "Aha! Wait here. Try not to get your ugly all over the bed."

Miriden was holding in her laughter and failing as Piper bustled out the room.

"I'm not ugly, am I?" Alistair whined, looking like a kicked puppy.

"No, no, of course not," Miriden reassured him. She closed her eyes so Reagan could apply a thin strip of winged black eyeliner to her lids.

The next hour was spent in frivolous preparation for the celebration. Miriden was dressed in an elegant gown easy to move around in but eye-catching enough to please even the nobles of Orlais. People wouldn't pay attention to her dress, though. They would pay attention to her jewelry. With a gold septum piercing and a silver charm hanging from it, a jeweled choker that covered the entire length of her neck and the tops of her shoulders, rings accompanying most of her fingers, and a few gold hoops in each ear, her subjects would no doubt be impressed.

As for Alistair, they elected to tone it down on him so as to not distract the nobility from Miriden. Instead of his hair sticking up as it usually did, the ladies combed it back, giving him an uncharacteristic well-groomed look. They also combed what little facial hair he had (and grumbled about not being able to work with a beard as they would with a dwarven man). He looked most handsome in the green and silver garb they put him in. How they managed to rectify the measurements to fit him in such a short time, Miriden didn't know.

When they left the sheltered comfort of the palace, they walked into the pride of the dwarva. Bands of minstrels playing bagpipes and piccolos in traditional Celtic tunes roamed the decorated streets, and there were rows and rows of tables filled with dwarven delicacies. Merchants seized the opportunity to broadcast their wares and noble hunters took advantage of the celebration to seduce a viable man or woman. The human soldiers enjoyed the attention.

In a different light, this celebration would be seen as foolish. Why would anyone do this on the brink of a full-scale war? The answer could be found in the dread underlying all the smiles. They weren't celebrating their impending victory. They were giving one last night where they could forget all their troubles before the storm hit. Seeing the dwarves at their best like this, with no castes dividing them and no politics to segregate them- it reminded people of what they were fighting for. Not more war. So the fighting could stop, especially the infighting, and the dwarves could flourish.

It made Miriden sad. So much counted on her victory. She owed it to the dwarves and the Wardens to prevail.

"My queen!" Audalis greeted cheerfully, approaching her with a mug of ale in one hand. "Come, meet the commanders you'll be working with. They're a good bunch. I think you'll be pleased."

Miriden nodded, smiling kindly. She looked up at Alistair and waved him off. "Go, have fun. I'll find you before the night is over."

"Alright," he replied reluctantly before setting off towards a weapon merchant.

She stepped in stride with Audalis as he led her to a group of warriors clad in fine heavy armor. They were laughing loudly, clinking their mugs together in a toast Miriden arrived too late to hear. When she approached, they straightened up abruptly and adopted a professional manner.

"Our apologies, Majesty, we didn't know we'd be seeing you personally," a chubby dwarf with blond hair apologized. He bore a sword and shield with the emblem of House Saelac.

"No need. Please, continue," Miriden urged with a reassuring smile. She missed the days where instead of hiding their mugs when she approached, they handed her one. The gold bangles on her wrist jingled as she brought a hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

Continued they did. The night was drunk away, spent getting to know the commanders she'd be working with and some of the combatants she'd recruited from Ferelden. Nobody was more important than anybody that night. In the morning, they would all share the same blood, and if they were lucky, the same sword.


	8. Into The Abyss

Letters had been sent. The first was shipped to the Wardens at Weisshaupt, declaring that their aid would be needed in the coming storm. The second went to Sten in Par Vollen, the third to Leliana and Wynne in Orlais, and the fourth to Zevran in Antiva. It was Miriden's hope that they would bring agents with them should they choose to join.

The nobles lent Miriden one-hundred soldiers from the warrior caste. It was a mere fraction of the whopping one-hundred thousand that the warrior caste consisted of, but one-hundred was better than nothing. She assumed she could address the Legion of the Dead while they were roaming the Deep Roads, and hopefully, gain their allegiance.

The thaig they were setting off to was the nearest great one: Aeducan.

Losses were inevitable. Miriden was having trouble contending with that. She stood outside of the Deep Roads entrance, rows and rows of soldiers lined up in rectangular units before her. She scanned her eyes over the crowd. The humans were to the left and the mages and templars to the right, with the dwarves bringing up the middle. The casteless were in the front, fittingly, since they were the ones that needed to be watched. Miriden wondered how many assassins made up the group. She noted Urtok was front and center.

Sekla and Abbanach would be joining her, along with her bronto, Amgarrak. They stood at her sides along with Alistair. She wore the finest dwarven heavy armor available, crafted by none other than House Aeducan, and brandished a powerful two-handed maul boring the sigil of Orzammar. There was a lot to be represented.

"Alright," she began. "We're going to House Aeducan with the hope of reclaiming it to prove to the Assembly that this can be done, if they lend us the proper tools. Some of you will die, but you can be assured that your name will go down in history for participating in what will lead to the final assault on the Deep Roads.

"Standing on ceremony isn't going to get our kingdom back. Here's the plan. Warriors, you'll distract the darkspawn while our rogues plant traps and our mages set prisms. Then you'll fall back, and we'll throw a fireball or something equally eye-catching towards the traps' direction. The darkspawn will take the bait and if all goes well, those traps will be set off and it'll take a significant chunk out of however many roam the Aeducan thaig. It's a sloppy and dangerous plan, but the first step to failing is believing you'll fail."

Luckily, without an archdemon, the darkspawn were little more than walking slabs of corrupted meat. They were more likely to fight each other over a gold trinket than to direct their attention towards Miriden's armies. Darkspawn had no concept of strategy, but their strength depended completely on their numbers, which there happened to be a lot of.

"Let's march." Miriden declared, raising her maul into the air to set it in stone.

The armies before her cheered, and the onslaught began.

Tireless, they marched for hours before even nearing the Aeducan thaig. Only a few stray darkspawn groups had to be fought along the way and they'd gone down without anyone barely lifting a sword. But that surreal peace only ever lasted for so long when trekking through the Deep Roads, and sure enough, they reached their first challenging group not far from the Aeducan thaig's entrance.

The band consisted of about fifteen genlocks and twenty hurlocks, heeded by one ogre. The battle that ensued was catastrophic. Miriden charged forth and allowed the bloodrage of a berserker to cloud her mind and take over. The rage at what the darkspawn did to her people drove her forward and kept her maul swinging ruthlessly at the corrupted beasts.

In the wake of an army consisting of mostly berserkers, even darkspawn cowered in fear. Some of them retreated further into the Deep Roads and out of reach and the ones that stayed faced the unyielding wrath of dwarven pride. Miriden thrashed her maul to and fro, swinging it with speed that rivaled a griffon's. A hurlock caught the glare of her bloodshot eyes and letting out a terrifying battle roar, she charged towards it, ramming right into it like a bowling ball into its pins and knocking it to the ground. She snapped its neck.

Behind her, the ogre was doing them in. The first man to fall was a human warrior of stout build, caved in by a boulder the ogre hurled his way.

Miriden was going to make sure he was the last to fall. Directing and channeling her rage to the ogre, she bludgeoned her way to it, leaving a trail of black ichor behind her. Dwarven warriors hacked and slashed uselessly at the ogre's ankles while human archers nocked arrows into its chest. It wasn't enough to break through the ogre's thick hide, so Miriden would break its bones.

With a rage-driven roar and a blocked-out mind, she brought her maul high over her head and brought it down onto the back of the cursed creature's knee. It was a weak point, she knew from years of wrestling with Bhelen and Trian. The ogre roared furiously and spun around, knocking down several soldiers in its wake. It dug its enormous feet into the ground and hunched over, preparing for a charge. They were in too tight of a space to move out of the way in time before that thing plunged right into them.

Suddenly, it froze in place as it was encased by a magical prism. Confused, Miriden looked over her shoulder to spot the caster. Rican, the intimidating qunari mage, was the culprit. And he was not supposed to be using his magic for anything other than healing.

Miriden didn't care. She turned back around and seized the opportunity to bring the ogre down. The prism seemed to weaken its defenses in addition to paralyzing it, so the arrows that pierced it sunk deeper and the swords that clashed it swung harder. By the time the prism wore off, the ogre collapsed onto the ground with a ground-shaking thud, defeated.

It was the first victory of many to come, she hoped. There was still a thaig to reclaim and there was still a dead human laying on the ground in a heep of his own blood. Miriden held no knowledge on human funeral rites. She looked up at Alistair searchingly.

"Burn him," he supplied softly.

"Burn him? The sod is wrong with you humans?" a casteless dwarf exclaimed.

Alistair was patient. "So we won't be fighting his corpse on the way back thanks to demons possessing it. Burn him."

Luckily, since it was only one death, they could afford to make a small pyre to rest the fallen soldier's body on. The dwarves worked quickly and efficiently, guided by humans who knew what making the pyre entailed by not sure on how to keep it all together. Within the next half hour, a few wooden planks were stacked together with the soldier's body on it.

"What was his name?" Miriden asked, standing beside Alistair, who was holding a lit torch above the makeshift pyre.

"Corra," someone from the crowd answered. The voice belonged to a human man with tears streaking his cheeks. "He was my husband."

"I'm sorry for your loss, ser."

"I'm not," the man retorted. "We knew what we signed on for. We proudly serve our good King Alistair where ever he goes and a death in his service is better than one without purpose."

Miriden knew that soldier was guarding his heart. Later, when they set up camp and rested for the night, he would contend with his grief and pray to whatever God he may believe in to guide his husband's soul through the abyss. But now, he would raise his chin and move on, because they needed him at his best.

"Rest well, Corra," Alistair said before igniting the pyre.

As the flames licked the stone walls and sent blazing embers in the air, enveloping the corpse in a haze of red and orange hues, Miriden regretted to realize that this was likely the last time they'd hold such a ceremonious funeral. More likely, they'd be burning piles upon piles of bodies all at once. How many other soldiers had friends and family out there? Or, like the good man who'd been espoused to Corra, right here in the Deep Roads with them?

They couldn't afford to linger now. As soon as Corra's corpse was reduced to ashes, they marched on, hearts thumping in time with their steps.

The next few hours passed without incident. Miriden's stubby legs were tiring, but she kept going without complaint. Unexpectedly, Urtok approached her side some time after the rite, the sides of his head freshly shaven and his dreadlocks tied into a ponytail at the back of his head. His dark beard had been clipped and braided, more fashionably than what was usual among the casteless.

"There a problem?" Miriden inquired at his approach.

"Other than your boys 'accidentally' swinging their blades towards mine during battle? Nah, not really," he chided. "I'm just trying to figure out where you're goin' with all this. How do you plan on completely annihilating the darkspawn? They're endless, and when they're not, they just collect more people and make themselves endless again."

"That's a good question."

He stared at her. "Well? What's the sodding answer?"

"We'll find out if we reach an Old God," she said pensively.

"If, if." He paused, walking in silence alongside her for a while. He looked to be deep in thought, but Miriden doubted a man like him ever got under the surface of his thoughts. "Hey, I noticed how you were fighting back there. You're a berserker."

"And so are you."

"Well, yeah, but it's expected from me. You're a queen, you don't get dirty."

Ironic that he was saying such things while Miriden was covered in blood not her own. "Queens also don't raise an army of surfacers to combat darkspawn, and they definitely don't allow casteless into that army, but here I am. And here you are."

"Here I am, indeed." His slightly disfigured eye twitched, almost as if he wanted to wink at her. In reality, he was applying movement to the casteless branding on his cheek. "What I really came up here to say was that I think I know how to take a big chunk out of the darkspawn. Not for this expedition but for the, you know, the big one."

He'd piqued her interest. She turned her head to look at him instead of the road ahead of her. "I'm listening."

His fingers were fiddling together uncomfortably. Miriden narrowed her eyes suspiciously, urging him to spit it out before she lost her patience. A good idea coming from a casteless wasn't likely, but she was willing to hear anything. Urtok sighed uneasily. "Alright, so to kill the darkspawn, you gotta go to the source, yeah? And the source probably ain't those dragons. Well, how about broodmothers? You take out all the broodmothers, you cut off a profitable deal of their reinforcements."

Her expression turned thoughtful. It actually wasn't a bad idea. How they were going to find all the broodmothers, though, would be a problem. Nothing ever showed up when one was deliberately hunting for it. And this, coming from Urtok? If there was ever a doubt in Miriden's bones in regards to him once being part of the warrior caste, they were desisted then. Only an experienced veteran could think of something so creative. And Urtok was certainly familiar with the Deep Roads if he knew about broodmothers.

She still shuddered at the memory of defeating her first one. It was horrid and... God, those were a lot of nipples. She found herself wondering if the darkspawn actually suckled at them. Suckling at the teat of evil, as it were.

"That's not bad," she praised. "But how are we going to find those broodmothers? We're bound to miss a few."

"Well, I think I know where one is," he said hesitantly. "As for the others, I think you can just follow the trail of darkspawn. A broodmother tends to be near where ever there's a big chunk of those ugly blighters."

"You know a lot."

"I ain't a fool. Most of us casteless aren't. If you nobles didn't spend so much time with your noses in the air, well, you might just have had a few less thaigs to reclaim." He retreated back into his group of casteless then, leaving Miriden to her thoughts.


	9. Aeducan Thaig

The first dust-coated emblem of House Aeducan they came across struck a tremor of nerves into the army. Miriden could sense it. They were nearing the first of many hard fought battles. Even if they won with few losses, many would be claimed by the darkspawn taint. It wasn't a disease easy to catch if one was wearing formidable armor and had half a talent for deflecting blows, but even so, it was a problem they would be forced to address in the coming days.

Miriden could sense the darkspawn. It was a hemorrhage in her brain, soft but irritating like white noise. Her Grey Warden perks weren't the only things that alluded to the darkspawn's growing presence. She could smell their rotting flesh and it reeked of blood and metal and corruption. No matter how many times the revolting smell chaffed her nostrils, she wouldn't grow used to it.

Alistair was sensing it too, she could tell. He looked downright uncomfortable.

When they grew close enough to the thaig, Miriden stopped to debrief the plan once more to the army. "Remember: Warriors, you distract the darkspawn while rogues plant the traps. It won't be hard. The darkspawn have no sense of strategy and they won't know what you're doing. They fall for bait easily. Fight hard, and don't stop."

The darkspawn turned out to be more numerous than Miriden planned. She could easily estimate a hundred of them at first sight. It didn't matter now, though. They were already engaged in battle.

The gurgled ear-piercing screeches they elicited were monstrous. The ensuing events were blurred by a cacophony of battle cries, clashes of steel, and screams of pain as soldiers fell to their deaths. It was easy to distinguish a human's scream from a darkspawn's- all you had to listen for was the taint.

Miriden charged, her maul coming into contact with a hurlock alpha's greatsword. She grunted with the effort of stopping its pushing strength from knocking her down. Her feet's grip on the stone ground slid until she bashed her maul forth and staggered the hurlock, then she seized the opening and brought her weapon down onto the beast's chest. It buckled under the weight and fell with a screech of anger after a final bash to the neck.

Beside her, Alistair was bashing a genlock archer with his shield. When the genlock fell, he plunged his sword deep into its gut and moved onto the next target. A ghoul was picking up his trail and were it not for one of the casteless dwarf's stepping in between them, it would have sunk its claws into Alistair's back. Instead, the ghoul's claws met the edge of the dwarf's dagger. Her other dagger was used to flog the ghoul's innards.

The rogues were dawning their traps. Dwarves used a bomb that bore a striking similarity to qunari gaatlok. It would light up the thaig like fireworks in a night sky, and that was what they needed. Unfortunately, the bombs took a significant amount of time to plant, and the warriors would hold all the pressure for a while yet.

Urtok's eyes were red with berserker rage. He carved a path of darkspawn, bludgeoning through them like they were maggots and leaving no opening for them to surround him. When they did, and it was a rare occasion indeed, he swung his greataxe in a perfectly executed whirlwind, knocking down and damning all darkspawn unlucky enough to be in range.

That's when the ogres became a problem. There were four total, and they spared no expense trying to avoid crushing their own comrades on their way to its foes. One picked up a boulder and hurled it across the thaig. The human soldiers narrowly escaped being scrambled by dodging out of the way and into a band of genlocks. Two, Miriden counted, fell.

Using anger to control her actions was an exhausting tactic, which was why she hadn't immediately called upon it when engaging the darkspawn. Deciding she'd tired out her stamina, her body went rigid and she screamed loud enough to rattle the trees if there had been any. Her eyes shot blood red, and she sprinted towards the ogre with her maul prepared to dance.

Bringing it around her shoulder to gain more momentum, she bashed it into the ogre's calf, again and again until it sunk to its knees. It brought its monstrous hand up to swipe her when she bolted out of the way and to its back, where she proceeded to pelt her maul into its back repeatedly. A hail of arrows rained on the ogre, courtesy of the archers, and the warrior caste made short work of it.

The ogre fell barely before it knew what was happening.

There was still three more to handle. Miriden held onto her rage long enough to make it to the next, who was preparing another boulder to be thrown. She slid on her knees, closing the remaining distance between her and the blighted creature, and swung at the ogre's feet. It was hardly enough to nick a point of damage, but she wasn't aiming to injure it. She needed to distract it before that boulder was thrown.

The ogre stumbled slightly, though it didn't relent the boulder in its hands.

"MAGE!" Miriden roared. She prayed to the Stone that the qunari heard her plea.

He did. He was standing on a perch, staff ignited with an eerie pink glow. He raised his hands in the air, crystalline blue magic swirling at his palms. When he brought his hands down, a shroud of magic came down with him, locking the ogre into a prism. Now paralyzed in place, the army crowded around it like maggots on a carcass and gave all they had to take it down. Like the first ogre they defeated, this one went down before the spell had a chance to wear off.

Then a ball of fire crashed into the group of dwarves, taking down two of them and injuring another three. Miriden sharply whipped her head around and caught sight of a hurlock emissary. "Shit," she hissed.

"Emissary!" she called, aiming to alert her comrades of the coming trouble. There were still two ogres left and now they had darkspawn mages to worry about.

She had to think quickly. "Archers, take care of the emissary! Warriors, on me, to the ogre!" Her short legs did nothing to assist her speed, but she ran headlong towards the ogre anyway. She had to fight through a mass of darkspawn along the way, aided by her fellow dwarves. When they reached the ogre, they clambered for a chance to get a hit in.

An arrow soared through the air, a bout of fire on its head. That was the signal.

"Fall back!" Miriden bellowed. "Fall back!"

The ogre they were battling roared and flailed its arms wildly trying to catch them before they got away. As Miriden had expected, the darkspawn followed them right into their traps. A soft sizzling noise reached her ears as a genlock stepped on one of the trigger plates. "Run!" she ordered. The army desisted their fighting and took off just in time for one explosion after another to set off.

Ear-ringing cacophonies of mass destruction ignited the thaig. A couple of Miriden's soldiers were lost in the explosions, but she'd expected as much. She dodged and fell head-first into the ground, groaning in pain as her head connected with the stone. Her vision blurred and she felt herself losing consciousness, slowly slipping into a dark abyss.

"Miriden! Miriden, get up!" Alistair's voice was distant and foggy.

_Come on, stay awake,_ she ordered herself. She couldn't hear anything beyond the screeches of the darkspawn. She planted her hands firmly on the ground beneath her and used all of her remaining strength to lift her body up, only to fall down again. Her head felt as heavy as the maul she used as a weapon, and as pained as that weapon invoked upon its enemies.

A sudden wave of energy and blissful peace washed over her. From the corners of her eyes, she could see pink magic being cast unto her by a giant, horned figure. Healing magic, she identified. It soothed the tension in her head and gave her enough strength to regain some of her hearing, and with Alistair's assistance, she was able to stumble to her feet.

She looked over her shoulder at the ensuing disaster. Darkspawn burned at the behest of the explosions and humans were still battling those that remained or were injured. The battle was in their favor, but it wasn't over. Miriden scrambled for her maul, her ears still ringing from the initial blast and her vision still hindered. She lived by one, simple rule: Don't stop fighting until after you're dead. And so long as she could breathe, her maul would swing.

An overwhelming rage clouded her senses at the sight of the fallen soldiers. There were so many of them. It was the darkspawn's fault, they did this, they took her kingdom, they tainted everything they could get their grubby little hands on. Thinking about it made Miriden want to crush her own body, just for something to fight. She reached deep into her gut and wrenched out every drop of strength she had, then she charged.

The last remaining hurlock to fall was desecrated by her own hand. Even after it was dead, she kept bludgeoning it, repeatedly plowing her maul into its revolting face. Each strike was timed with a sickening slosh of flesh crumbling and a grunt of effort.

"Miriden! Miriden, it's over, we won!" Alistair implored, rushing over to her.

Finally, she relented. Breathing hard, she tossed her damaged maul aside, staring down at the scrambled remains of the hurlock with a hatred bright enough to rival a dragon's. _It's over, we won, _Alistair's words replayed in her mind. _It's over. We won. We won. _She laughed. Relieved, joyous laughter, amplified when she caught sight of the dusty Aeducan sigil carved into the wall.

"Alright, seal the tunnels," she ordered breathlessly.

The remaining dwarven warriors, about fifty of them total, heeded her demand immediately. Masses of darkspawn corpses and pools of blood, not entirely the black ichor of the creatures, littered the clearing. It'd take them months just to clean out all the carcasses. It would take even longer for them to recolonize here. But for now, they could find joy in their victory.


	10. Urtok's Lament

The victory rung hollow for the dwarves that would return to the same life they'd lived before. When they returned to Orzammar-_if _they returned to Orzammar -the casteless would be overlooked and shadowed by those who belonged to a caste. What could they expect, really? Fighting for a people that despise them right down to their very existence, and then expecting some credit for their heroism would prove to be hopeless.

This didn't make it easier for Urtok to contend with. Once, in another life, he understood why the castes hated the casteless so much. He even agreed with them and spit at the casteless' feet as he passed them. Karma was a very real thing, it seemed, considering he was now among them. He almost missed the days where he was blind and ignorant to the casteless' suffering. 'Ignorance is bliss' could not have been a more relevant statement.

The queen stayed behind with everyone save for a few dwarves from the warrior caste that returned to Orzammar to deliver the good news. If they backed out now before the tunnels were completely sealed, there was a good chance they'd return to another horde of darkspawn to defeat. Occasionally, a group would mindlessly charge into the thaig through the roads they hadn't sealed yet, but they were always cut down in a matter of seconds.

Urtok sat on a rock, tugging on the ruined straps of his greatsword's hilt. He'd dropped it in the fight to elect for strangling a genlock rather than running it through, but as a result, it was trampled by the horde. It would need smelted and refitted before it'd be ready for the next battle, of which there was no doubt of.

_Ogosah was a burly woman. In Orzammar, that made her a glittering gem in the eyes of many men and women. Her brunette hair hung in rows of braids tight on her head, and a single long, thick strand of hair hung from her chin that she'd tied a knot in the middle of. Stern, gray eyes glared at the man across from her._

_"This is the sixth time this month you've sent that sword in for repair," she grumbled while snatching the greatsword from his grasp._

_He grinned lopsidedly, flashing his gold-capped teeth. "How many more times will it take to get the hint across that I want you to make me a new one?" He leaned his shoulder against a pillar next to the woman's anvil, crossing his ankles._

_She wasn't amused. "'Til you work up the coin for it, salroka." She sat down before the anvil and got situated, then started thumping the blade's dents with her hammer._

_"Oh, come on. I'm your brother. No family discount?" The two siblings had the same parents, only their mother was part of the smith caste while their father was part of the warrior caste. Naturally, the male inherited his father's caste, and the female inherited her mother's. It never affected Ogosah and Urtok's sibling compatibility. Everyone in Orzammar knew they were a power couple._

_"I should give you a family crack on the head, if you keep putting me to work like this," she chided, keeping her gaze on her work._

_"Speaking of work," Urtok began, pushing his weight off the pillar. "there's this expedition coming up. Nothing major, just to deflower some loot and knock back some darkspawn that are getting too close to Orzammar. We might need your steel out there."_

_"I bet you will. But I can't, it's been too soon after the last time I sneaked out. Mother's starting to think I'm losing my Stone Sense because of all these trips to the surface I've apparently been taking for 'trading'."_

_"Losing your nerve because the old ball and chain says you gotta stay here with all this quiet? Sister, you wound me." Urtok laid his hand on his heart dramatically._

_She rolled her eyes with a tired sigh. "Alright, but this is the last one. I don't fancy losing my caste for getting caught on a Deep Roads expedition I wasn't supposed to be on. Last thing I need is to wind up with the filthy casteless." She spat the word like venom on her tongue. Urtok had never met someone so vehement towards casteless as his sister._

_But he got his way, and he didn't give a rat's ass about the casteless, so he smirked victoriously. "Wonderful. We're leaving tomorrow, an hour after the first trumpet. Meet us at the entrance, alright?"_

_At her affirmation, he took his leave._

A much more tired Urtok sat gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly his knuckles were white. His teeth were sore from gritting them. Slowly, he came to and relented his grip and set his jaw to ease. Almost robotically, he resumed tying new straps to the hilt of his sword. With it laid bare before him, a sigil was carved into the hilt, baring wings cascading from the blade of a sword. The sigil of House Kondrat.

_Ogosah was approaching the group of warriors with not one but two greatswords in her grizzled hands. One was the one she traditionally carried on the expeditions she stowed away on, identified by the scuffs and scratches on its length, and the other was so freshly smelted it still radiated a warm gleam and smelled of embers._

_"You didn't!" Urtok exclaimed, eyes bulging with awe as she handed him the greatsword._

_She smirked proudly. "Got tired of you always hounding me about it. But aye, I'm expecting some coin from you in the future for this."_

_He didn't even care about the coin. For years he'd been wanting one of the famed swords crafted from House Turana, instead having to use the dulled and all but useless greatsword he currently had strapped to his back. So much for having a sister part of the smith caste, he supposed. Now the advantages were clear. He lifted the old one over his head and tossed it aside carelessly, then turned the new one over in his hand. On the hilt was not the sigil of House Turana, two horns on either side of a hammer, but House Kondrat's signature winged sword._

_A goofy grin broke out on Urtok's face. He grabbed his sister's wrist and pulled her into a bone-crushing hug, patting her back hard enough to cause her to stumble if his body weren't keeping her balance steady. 'Thank you' was a human phrase that dwarves didn't use, and even if they did, such words couldn't even begin to express his gratitude._

_Her strong arms wrapped around his waist and she tolerated the hug for a moment longer before tugging herself free. "Don't get all sappy on me now. You don't wanna get soft before a battle."_

_She was right about that. Laughing gruffly, he tied the strap to the hilt of the greatsword and swung it over his back. It was heavier than the old one and didn't lack in bulk, but those were always the best ones. He didn't carry around those pencils men called 'swords' and those wooden pieces of shit they called 'shields'. The only thing those were good for was looking pretty, and Urtok didn't need to look pretty for the darkspawn._

_"Alright, we should get underway," he declared. He turned to his men, a unit of fifteen from the warrior caste. They knew Ogosah wasn't supposed to be among them, but they all loved Urtok enough to keep their mouths shut. It helped that Ogosah had grown on them throughout the years of stow-away expeditions. "We turn back at Caridin's Cross. Whatever we find, you know the drill, twenty percent of the profits to each of us."_

_"Aye," the dwarves agreed in sync._

_"Right then. Let's go."_

Urtok ran his thumb over the sigil. Once, that symbol meant something to him. Honor and duty combined into one, carved into the hilt of a sword by the woman who'd crafted it. But now the sigil didn't represent honor and duty and valor. It represented remembrance, and vengeance. Vengeance he would wreak while at the side of Queen Aeducan.

The woman herself was sitting with whom he assumed was her human lover. The man looked downright foolish, grinning stupidly like he was whenever he was in his lady's presence. He seemed to have said something funny, because Aeducan let out a soft laugh that Urtok hadn't seen until then. Her laughter sparked something in the king and he bore a striking resemblance to a giddy schoolboy, wanting to remember what he'd said to evoke that smile so he could do it again and again and see it more often.

It was disgusting.

Urtok grunted beneath his breath and tightened the straps one last time, then got to his feet. The greatsword he wielded was not nearly as brilliant as it had been the day he received it, so many years ago. Age had taken its toll on both the sword and the wielder, and both sported permanent scars. But even if that sword one day became nothing but a hilt, he'd fight with it until the day he died. He owed it to his sister. And each year, he placed one more sovereign on her empty sarcophagus, even though she'd only demanded payment in jest.

They never found a body. During his trial, Urtok played the fool and swore with his hand on the Stone that he had no idea where she'd gone, only that she was gone. That was only partly true. He knew where she was, what had been done to her, and it kept him up at night knowing how paralyzed he was.

The time had come to stop pretending she was savable, he thought as he made his way towards the queen.


End file.
